


Bodies

by hintofsanity



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 01:31:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5766799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hintofsanity/pseuds/hintofsanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walt disposes of Crazy Eight's body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bodies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Porkchop_Sandwiches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porkchop_Sandwiches/gifts).



_ Your family. This is for your family. There is no other way, you must do it for your family.  _ The mantra plays over and over in Walter’s head as he grips the bike lock tighter. It acts as a sort of screen, blocking out the unnecessary visuals and groans underneath him, allowing him to give the final pull. The screen is a filter for any other thoughts, and glides over the reality of the task at hand. With a thud, the body of Crazy Eight collapses to the ground, and Walt still grips the bike with such force his knuckles are white. He has to will his fingers to loosen their grip, convincing them that the task is complete. It’s like they’re not his own hands. How can they be, he’s not a killer, right? This wasn’t supposed to happen, right? He’s only trying to help his family. It’s as if the screen has finally lifted, and he’s truly seeing the mess in front of him. His hands shake and scream murder, but his heart whispers sacrifice.    

Like the dead body in front of him, he thuds to the ground. His hands that aren’t his own are shaking now, and he presses them to his eyes. They’re wet with tears. Everything feels wrong; he can’t help but feel these thoughts are not his own. 

_ Whose are they, then? _

That’s a question he’s not ready to come to terms with. He realizes there’s a split down his heart; one side wants to do the right thing, the other side insists this is what he must do for his family. He can’t quite bring himself to bring the screen down again, mostly because it makes him feel disoriented, like someone else has taken over. Instead, he runs upstairs, not sparing any glances towards the body. In the cabinets of the bathroom, large mounds of random things greet him. He pushes it all aside, rummaging for something specific. 

_ Come on, there has to be one here somewhere. What the hell Jesse, why do you have all this random shit?  _

In the very back of the cabinet, he spots it. He grabs the lone towel and begins to make his way to the stairs. He’s walking slowly, not eager to clean up his mess. As he passes through the kitchen, a piece of paper flutters off the counter. It’s the pro and con list he made earlier. He bends to pick it up, but his eyes can’t leave the sentence: “if you don’t, he’ll kill your entire family.” Standing upright again, he closes his eyes. 

_It was the right thing. It had_ _to be the right thing._ Has _to be the right thing, because there’s no going back._

He clenches his teeth. Now is not the time to dwell on morality. The voice in the back of his mind tells him to focus on the new task: cleaning up the mess. That’s all he’s doing now. Cleaning. He turns the pro and con list over and scribbles a short supply list on the back.  

The stairs creak as he goes back down them. He doesn’t look at the face of the body laying there; the only way this will work is if he can disconnect the fact that the body used to be a real living person. 

There isn’t any blood on the ground; that’s not what the towel is for anyways. Instead, he averts his eyes and ties the towel around Crazy Eight’s face, covering anything that could remind Walt of his existence. The list is in his hands now, and he studies it like he’s trying to memorize an equation. What the hell has he gotten himself into? 

 

Unlike Jesse, Walt went and bought a large plastic container. It wasn’t easy, as every store he visited didn’t seem to have a section of containers labeled “convenient sizing for all of your corpse disposal needs.” Standing in the basement, he lays out all of his supplies in front of him. The acid is carefully measured out, and the containers sit side by side. Gloves and a respirator accompany him as well. 

_ It’s just like an experiment. Think of it step by step, don’t look at the reality of it.  _

If he could just pretend that he’s in class, teaching his students how to combine two substances, perhaps this will all go a lot smoother. Perhaps he could pretend that this person lying in front of him was not having a conversation with him earlier. 

In his life, Walt never expected to be lifting a dead body; he practically throws his back out trying to get it into the tubs. He turns to pick up the bottle of acid, and when he looks back the towel has slid off of Crazy Eight’s face. His dead eyes are staring at nothing, but they still burn holes into Walt. He can’t look away, and every thought he didn’t want comes flooding to him. 

_ This was a  _ person.  _ A living, breathing entity that you killed.  _

_ What kind of person does this make you?  _

_ What kind of person are you going to be?  _

He tips the acid farther, a tiny bit dribbling onto Crazy Eight’s clothes. Walt tries to look only at the cloth, and not his face, but it’s no use. The dead eyes seem to pull his gaze towards them, like they want him to see the results of his actions. 

They’re not Crazy Eight’s eyes anymore, though. They’re Walt’s. He can see himself lying in the bucket, empty eyes staring at the ceiling, all his worries dissolving with the acid. 

_ Right where I belong,  _ a voice tells him. 

How easy would it be to be lying there instead, he thinks. His mere existence could simply melt away. Surely no one would have to worry about him anymore, and his own thoughts would no longer consume him. The feeling would be satisfying. 

It’s like he’s floating, but his feet still touch the ground. Knees, actually, because he’s still bent over the body, acid clutched in one hand, eyes fixated on Crazy Eights’. These thoughts of death feel strange in his head, but they’re almost comforting. It’s such a surreal situation that he’s in, literally killing a man to keep his family alive, that it gives him a feeling of slight euphoria. Despite the exhilaration, every part of his body is telling him that it’s anything but. It’s almost like his eyes are glazing over and his mind is projecting these thoughts onto the body before him. 

The little acid that he’s already poured must be working at the skin now, because a smell is creeping at the edge of his senses.  _ God,  _ the smell is something that he never expected; a mix between rotting flesh and wanting to crawl out of your own. 

A phone call interrupts him. How long was he just sitting there, anyways? He almost drops the bottle of acid trying to fumble his phone from his pocket. 

“Hello?”

“Dad, what are you doing?” 

Junior’s voice catches Walt off guard. “I’m, uh, I’m finishing up at work. Did you need something?”

“Y-yeah. Can you pick me up some Raisin Bran Crunch on your way home? Mom couldn’t find the right one.” 

“Sure, yeah, I can do that son.” He fumbles around his words, completely caught off-guard. “Did you need anything else?”

“No, that’s it. “

“Okay, see you at home.” 

The phone slides back into his pocket as Walt picks up the acid once again. This time, the screen forces itself back over his thoughts. 

_ This is not a body. This is a hollow corpse.  _

He’s a machine now, simply focused on the process rather than the outcome. His face shows no emotion; he stares unwaveringly into Crazy Eight’s eyes as the acid washes over the sockets.  

 

In his own house, Walt finds himself alone. It’s metaphorical, because Skyler and Junior are in the other room, but he’s still alone with his thoughts. He’s not in the mood for talking; the feeling of guilt is a good motivator for keeping his mouth shut. When the water from the shower feels warm and soothing, he steps in, hoping it will wash away some of these feelings. He keeps his face under the stream of water until he can’t breath, and he comes away coughing. His skin is beginning to feel tight from the water, and his gaze switches lazily to a patch on his arm. The water dripping off of it creates the illusion that his skin is melting, and the memory of Crazy Eight’s body dripping out of his skin almost causes him to throw up. He quickly turns the water off.  

 

When Jesse walks through the door, he’s surprised to find everything cleaner than he left it. The dirty dishes still sit in the sink, and his various “recreational activities” are still strewn about the house, but overall everything appears cleaner. Mr. White must have already left, because no trace of him is to be found. The best part about being back in his house again: using his own bathroom. It might appear to be silly, but it’s a greatly satisfying feeling. He trudges up the stairs and stops in his tracks. The toilet seat is down. Jesse never leaves the seat down, so already he knows something is off. He lifts the seat up, revealing the complete lack of water in bowl. 

_ What the hell was Mr. White doing in my bathroom?  _

Jesse flicks the lever to flush it, and a gurgling red liquid bubbles up from the pipes. Accompanying it is a smell that makes him immediately press the sleeve of his sweatshirt to his nose.        

“Ugh what the hell man, I can’t even take a proper dump anymore?”


End file.
